


Don't Go Quiet

by CanisMajor1234



Category: Deus Ex (Video Games), Deus Ex: Mankind Divided
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I haven't decided yet honestly :3c, M/M, Making Out, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, Whump, a singular panic attack, but i guess it isn't, jensen has more self control than vaclav, tech BS, that needs to be a tag, will this have more?, yet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 00:26:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15569709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanisMajor1234/pseuds/CanisMajor1234
Summary: "Václav, he just- he had to-See for himself. Run a hand over the wood of a shelf that hasn’t been pulled from the wall, mourning the abuse of the books thrown onto the floor. This was a front. He has digital copies of all of them. But, despite his adoration of tech, or progress, he’s grown a soft spot for this place, the feeling of paper beneath his hands as he turns a page, the smell of old ink when he, enraptured in a story, leans in far closer than necessary. Darwin’s On the Origin of Species glares up at him from the floor, chapters ripped free by uncaring hands, and Václav’s stomach rolls."





	Don't Go Quiet

**Author's Note:**

> I've actually been sitting on this for a while. Wasn't really sure if I was going to post this, but I decided it was either post or delete.  
> There's technically more to this, but I'm not sure if I'm going to continue, and this part stands on its own. I haven't decided if it's going to be part of the Moments universe either. I'll. figure that out later.

Václav breathes, deep, dust and ash and the smell of his own blood, and for the first time since he bought The Time Machine he doesn’t feel at home. 

It was dangerous to come back here, all things considered. Is dangerous. Someone might be lurking, watching. Waiting to finish the job. But Jensen hovers a polite distance away, eyes guarded by the familiar gold of his lenses. Watching. Waiting. And Václav, he just- he had to-

See for himself. Run a hand over the wood of a shelf that hasn’t been pulled from the wall, mourning the abuse of the books thrown onto the floor. This was a front. He has digital copies of all of them. But, despite his adoration of tech, or progress, he’s grown a soft spot for this place, the feeling of paper beneath his hands as he turns a page, the smell of old ink when he, enraptured in a story, leans in far closer than necessary. Darwin’s  _ On the Origin of Species _ glares up at him from the floor, chapters ripped free by uncaring hands, and Václav’s stomach rolls. 

_ This was a mistake, _ Václav thinks, kneeling in the dust to search for the one book that might have been spared from the destruction. In the shocked-silence of his mind the thought is so clear it hurts. All of this was a mistake- agreeing to work for Dvali, opening up this front, coming to this city in the first place. Not that Václav is a master of good life choices- genius he might consider himself, but Václav is well enough aware of himself that he knows he can be  _ dumb as shit _ sometimes. Running a thumb over where the foreword has been torn from blue-black leather, he tries to console himself that at least this time no one’s been caught in the crossfire. 

Or, almost no one. Jensen takes a step from the doorway, boots crunching shattered glass, and Václav tries to ignore the way every muscle in his body freezes at the sound. No matter how different, every sound that stretches in the silence of this trashed back-alley bookstore is just a little too similar to the sound of his own metal grinding against old stone still echoing in his ears, the feeling of Otar hooking fingers in Václav’s neural guard and  _ tugging _ still ringing in Václav’s nerves. Václav tries to force himself to breathe steady, not turning around to watch Jensen approach because he knows is he does then there’ll be no way to hide the tears that streak down his cheeks, or deny them, and-

“Is there anything you need me to grab?” Jensen asks, gentle as Václav thinks he’s ever heard. Still a polite distance away, but closer now, and Václav tries to focus on the sound of Jensen’s breathing, in and out and in again, in time, because Václav’ll take anything over the rushing of blood in his own ears. Fight of flight, but Václav’s done enough of both today, and he’ll give just about anything to just curl up and sleep right now.

“Nah,” Václav says, and clears his throat when the sound rasps and cracks. “Nah, I don’t think so.” Václav is almost proud of how little his voice shakes. “I’m sure everything important’s already been trashed. Besides, I just need-”

What? Food, probably, and water. A place to sleep for the night. A time machine, ironically, to go back and change… something. Anything. That none of this would have happened in the first place. Václav needs someone, somehow, to give him another chance, a fresh start without the looming, creeping threat of stabbing him in the back. 

None of that makes it past the cotton in Václav’s mouth, the lump in his throat. Jensen’s knuckles brush against the very outside of Václav’s shoulder, and Václav presses back into the touch. Tentative. Maybe a little bit scared, still, because the danger has passed for the moment but there is still the chance that Jensen will never look back. And Václav doesn’t want to push too far, ask for too much, but he’s fairly certain if he’s abandoned right now he’s going to tear himself apart at the seams. 

“The let’s get out of here,” Jensen says, fingers curling gentle but firm around Václav’s shoulder to help him up, and Václav might actually be crying.

Jensen’s apartment is pretty much exactly what Václav was expecting: inhabited, but not lived in. Microwave meals in the freezer. A bottle of whiskey on the coffee table, accompanied by a single glass. Jensen tells Václav to shower, diffing a roll of pliofilm and a roll of medical tape from somewhere in the kitchen. Promises to find Václav a new set of clothes- there isn’t a washer and dryer in the apartment, but Jensen says he’ll run Václav’s stuff downstairs when he gets the chance. 

Václav, for his part, mostly just listens while Jensen talks, listless, mostly lost, following directions when they’re given. He fumbles covering his neural guard before he finally gets it right- the metal plating is just a little loose, and there’s probably not even any real damage, but Václav would rather be safe than sorry when it comes to this. He regrets, and not for the first time tonight, the loss of his Chair, because fixing his neural guard is going to be a pain in the ass without it, an array of mirrors and a couple of hours of awkward stretching. Václav briefly entertains the idea of just walking into a LIMB clinic and asking for a repair. Tosses the thought out as quickly as it comes, though. He can barely stand the feeling of his own fingernails scraping the short hairs of the back of his neck. He doesn’t want to think about someone else messing around back there. 

The shower is too hot. It’s jarring, and it reminds Václav that he’s too fucking cold. His body catches up with the realization pretty fucking quickly, wracking tremors that build up an ache in Václav’s every muscle. He very nearly collapses, legs almost going out from under him, and he cracks the porcelain of the shower when he throws his arm out for support. Václav’s  _ lungs _ shudder. It hurts like hell, and Václav holds himself up by sheer force of will. Crumbling will. But it holds nonetheless, until he can breathe without feeling like he’s inhaling metal shavings.

If there’s a fine tremble in his hands, Václav does his best to ignore it. He fingers stumble opening the shampoo bottle. The scent is calming. Plain. Generic. But familiar. Clean. Not metallic, iron blood in the back of his throat. It’s a safe scent. Václav focuses on that, instead of the way he water runs brackish-red, pink bubbles that swirl their way down the drain. He focuses on the clean smell of the body wash rather than the way he has to scratch the crusted blood off his skin because he doesn’t want to waste the rest of the hot water waiting for it to soften and slough away. It’s easier when the water stings his eyes and he closes them against the glaring fluorescent light, until there’s a gun-burst bright behind his eyes that clenches his ribs iron-tight. 

He’s pretty sure he inhales water, and everything hurts again, and Václav slams off the shower before any more too-recent memories can drag him back again. The towels are soft, broken-in, as are the clothes that have been left on top of the toilet- sweatpants and button-up that are a bit too big but far more comfortable for it, and a pair of boxers that still have the tape holding them in a tight roll. Václav didn’t hear Jensen come in. A damn quiet man. Václav envies that, sometimes. He’s never been good at the whole “silence” thing. He’s a loud man. Václav knows he’s a loud man. He’s built his whole life around being loud, unapologetic, unforgettable, silver-steel gleam and hot-rod red. Considering the last thirty-six hours, Václav wonders if maybe that has been working against him.

There’s a cup of something steaming and a plate of warm food waiting on the coffee table as Václav steps out of the bedroom. Jensen is nowhere to be seen. The apartment is eerily quiet. Almost unnervingly so. Václav is pretty sure he can hear his own heart as it thumps against the inside of his chest, desperate with fear, his eyes darting to every soft-shadowed corner of the room as though in every one there is an Otar waiting with that distinctive gun to press to Václav’s temple. There isn’t anyone there, though, and Václav knows it, repeating it like a mantra over and over under his breath, but that doesn’t stop the terror from creeping over his skin like a chilling miasma. The food didn’t look appetizing in the first place, not really. But as Václav sits tentatively on the very edge of the couch, he’s so nervous he’s not even sure he’ll keep any of it down. 

The door clicks open. Václav jumps, violently, swearing as his knee slams against the edge of the coffee table hard enough that the mug topples over. Jensen swears too, more in response than with any real emotion. The soles of his shoes make a very purposeful clicking sound against the tile of the kitchen. Getting towels to clean up the mess, probably, and Václav knows he should probably be helping. Instead, Václav is staring at the coffee soaking into the carpet, wide-eyed and frozen. Reminded, viscerally, of the way blood spreads across concrete at night, when it’s just dark enough that red turns brown-black.

A hand settles on Václav’s shoulder- the very outside, furthest from his head or neck, resting, not holding, but still yanking him back into the present. Reminding him that he has to breathe. The air tears through his throat, scours his lungs like sandpaper. Václav’s panicking, but his failsafe is tripping, steadying his pulse, keeping his heart from racing, and Václav feels like he’s about to rattle out of his own skin. His senses are going haywire, overstimulated, and it takes everything he has to try and calm down. Focus. Narrow his perception. Widen it beyond the crumbling confines of his own body. 

Five things he can see. Václav’s tears burn his eyes, so he blinks them away. Rasps in a breath. There’s the coffee table in front of him, and it’s faux wood, surely, but it’s almost convincing, dark brown with whorls of lighter colors. The fork on it is plastic, white, gleaming in the dim light of the lamp near the bat that separates the kitchen from the living area. Jensen has moved the coffee table out a bit to settle between Václav’s knees- does it count as separate details if they’re all from the same person? Jensen has so many scars, surgical and clean, a noticeable one running from the helix just above his temple to where the carbon fiber covers the corner of his eye. Sunglasses, yes, but also a HUD. Sarif obsessed over its aesthetic, yes, but that doesn’t mean that they don’t have the most advanced, sophisticated tech Václav has ever seen. 

Four things he can hear. An air conditioner humming away beneath the window. One of the neighbors that Jensen shares a wall with has left their television on, but it’s two in the morning, so Václav has to assume that they’ve already fallen asleep- it’s two in the morning, almost three, and while Prague never sleeps, her people do. Václav’s own heartbeat, steady in his chest, aching every time it presses against the inside of his ribs. Jensen breathing in measured cycles. 

Three things he can feel. The couch beneath him. The way the collar of his shirt rests awkwardly against his neck- Václav wants to shift, to push it off and away, but his muscles, his augments, don’t respond to the commands his brain gives. One of Jensen’s hands rests on Václav’s shoulder still. The other is on Václav’s knee, rubbing circles into the dip of the kneecap- twice clockwise, once counterclockwise. Twice clockwise, once counterclockwise.

Two things he can smell. The food- synthetic meat, real vegetables and potatoes, some kind of too-salty gravy, alal beneath the overpowering smell of spilled coffee. Jensen’s soap, on Jensen’s skin and Václav’s. Clean. Safe. Not metallic, iron-blood in the back of his throat. 

One thing he can taste. Jensen’s lips, dry, chapped, but giving. Václav thinks, wildly, that this is probably the only time he’ll have to  _ bend down _ to kiss Jensen, overeager against Jensen’s unresponsive mouth. Desperate. Because Jensen is sure, safe, certain, and Václav is everywhere, scrambling to pull the pieces back together. He can’t. Not on his own. And he feels a little like this is only going to make things worse, but if he doesn’t do anything then he’s not sure he’ll be able to handle himself. His three-fingered hand curls against the nape of Jensen’s neck, and while it feels like he’s pushing too far too fast Václav still feels like it’s not nearly enough.

Jensen responds, slowly, slowing it down. The hand on Václav’s knee stays, but the one on his shoulder shifts to cup Václav’s cheek, thumb brushing through the patchy, day-old stubble growing there. Václav cannot help but push back against the touch, letting himself be guided by it. Letting Jensen slow the sparking static into a honey-stuck crawl. Letting Jensen draw him into that soft, slow, feel-good drag, until Václav’s lungs  _ burn _ with the sweetness. 

“Koller,” Jensen whispers when they break apart to breathe, a low rumble that Václav feels as much as hears. A thumb comes to rest in the hollow of Václav’s throat, and Václav can only gasp against it, held with his forehead pressed against Jensen’s and no closer. The distance aches. Václav tries to breathe with the pulse of it, through the shudders that wrack his chest, every inhale a blessing of warm air, every exhale a reminder that he’s  _ still alive _ . 

“ _ Koller,” _ Jensen says, more insistent this time, and Václav forces open eyes he didn’t realize he’d closed. They’re close, so close, Jensen’s gold, gold eyes everything that Václav can see. That thumb strokes up and down Václav’s throat, a slow, cool path along burning skin. Václav can feel it when he swallows nervously, hating the way Jensen’s eyes are filled with such gentle care. 

“Koller,” Jensen murmurs, smiles, and it’s  _ so. Fucking. Gentle. _ Far gentler than Václav deserves. Jensen catches Václav by the jaw when he tries to turn away, pressing their foreheads together, tracing the shape of Václav’s lips with the smooth pad of his thumb. “You need to eat something,” Jensen says, ever the voice of reason. “And drink something, at least. And if you still feel up to it, we can talk about this when you’ve finished.”

_ “This”. _ Whatever it is that’s grown so quickly between them. Or, maybe not so quickly at all. Václav knows that he hasn’t been the most professional with Jensen, even to his own standards. He wonders how  _ that _ led to  _ this _ , though: Jensen’s fingers carding almost idly through Václav’s messy, still damp hair as Jensen gets up and heads for the kitchen. Their fingers brush as Václav tentatively accepts the mug. Tea this time, not coffee, because neither of them need any more caffeine, especially considering how Václav’s heart already flutters in his chest when Jensen joins him on the couch, sitting so close their thighs press together. 

The food is bland. Václav eats it anyway, bite by careful bite, because he  _ is _ hungry. Panic triggers cortisol, and that eats through blood sugar. Václav’s put some effort into learning the science behind the mind, because the brain is a complicated machine controlling an only-slightly-less complicated meat-mech, and Václav will always insist that it’s best to know how anything works before you start adding to it. His failsafe doesn’t entirely prevent hormone release, just prevents anything from getting above certain levels until he dictates otherwise. It’s not a perfect system, and there’s nothing Václav can do about the feeling that washes over him when he finally forces himself to calm down- he’s crashing now, hard, and the longer Václav leans against Jensen’s shoulder, half-finished food in his lap, soaking up the quiet and the warmth, the more tempting it is to just close his eyes and never open them. 

This is when Jensen sleeps, Václav thinks sluggishly. The couch faces the entryway without being in direct line of sight of the door. It’s been replaced, too, soft, light-colored cloth in sharp contrast to the dark wood theme of the rest of the apartment. The square pillow at the end isn’t the useless, endlessly-embroidered piece people throw on hardly-used couches- it’s very soft when Jensen takes the plate from Václav’s lap and urges him to lay down, then pulls the blanket from its place on the arm of the couch over Václav. It’s a wonderfully heavy blanket, plenty warm, and Václav makes a small, satisfied noise as he curls it tighter around himself and sinks into sleep. 


End file.
